


Our Eternity

by BonfireByTheSea



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28840629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BonfireByTheSea/pseuds/BonfireByTheSea
Summary: Marianne was tired.  Her aging body was rebelling against her long hours in the studio.  She just wanted an hour of rest, but fate and a stranger had other plans.
Relationships: Héloïse & Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire), Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 79





	Our Eternity

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: If you are the type of person who is prone to crying, I suggest having a box of tissues at the ready.

The bed and my back creaked as I fell into the mattress. My body screamed that I was becoming too old for these long hours, but my mind kept telling me to keep going until I could not stand anymore. Images of my father’s last years flashed before my eyes, him sitting before the easel, unable to hold the lightest brush steady between his shaking fingers. He would have continued painting to the bitter end, if he could have. I was living the years he wished he had.

Opening my eyes and staring at the ceiling, I reflected on the portrait class that had concluded an hour ago. The girls I taught never aged. Of course, their faces changed, but they were forever in this capsule of youth. I, however, was continuously aging, for which I should be thankful. Old age was a gift granted to so few, yet in the same breath of thanks I also wondered what it would be like to actually rest and to stop running. 

_“I’ve dreamt of that for years.”_

_“Dying?”_

_“Running.”_

In my promise to remember, I was also haunted.

I exhaled a long stream of breath and closed my eyes again. I could get in an hour’s rest before having to prepare for the next class of girls. An hour of total silence. No charcoal scratching on rough paper, no paint strokes on canvas, no questions, no shushing those who were gossiping rather than working…just peace.

“Marianne!”

Or so I thought.

I sighed and threw my unappreciative legs over the side of the bed, planting my feet on the floor. I used my arms and pushed myself up to a standing position, every joint in my body creaking and whining with the movements. I ran my fingers through the front of my hair to return it to some sort of presentable state before heading out the door. I moved down the stairs cautiously, remembering that the last time I hurried down them ended with a doctor’s visit, a swollen ankle, and a stern warning of a week of bed rest.

After arriving slowly down the stairs, I turned the corner and saw the housekeeper standing in front of the closed doors to the studio classroom. She was always a bit of a nervous woman, always fretting that I did not eat enough, that I was as skinny as a young girl. Very motherly, in a way I had never experienced having lost my own so young, but now she seemed extra nervous. She was ringing her calloused hands and her brown eyes stayed firmly glued to the floor in front of her. She rocked back and forth on her toes like a child who knows they are about to be in trouble for something, but are awaiting punishment.

I stepped in front of her and she quickly made eye contact with me. Her head shrunk back a bit into her shoulders and her pink lower lip slid between her teeth. My body hurt too much to play games.

“Yes, Henriette?” I asked.

She released her lip from between her teeth and sighed. “There’s a young woman who has requested to speak with you. I told her you were resting, but she was very adamant. She said she had something that belonged to you. I told the woman that she could give it to me, but she refused. She said she was under strict orders to only present it, personally, to you.”

Something that belonged to me? What could it be? I rarely went out in the city these days, and if I did, I took nothing with me. The studio had been restocked two weeks before and I was not expecting any deliveries.

“Where is this woman?” I asked.

“I had her sit in the classroom. She said the matter was private business between you and her. I did not know where else to send her.”

“Thank you. I’ll speak with her. Could you prepare some tea for me for the next class?”

“Of course,” answered Henriette before bouncing her way down the hall towards the kitchen.

I stood in front of the doors to the classroom, adjusted my dress, and tucked the falling pieces of hair behind my ears. I took a deep breath and slowly turned the handle.

Sitting on a stool at one of the easels near the front of the room was a young woman. She was no older than twenty-five and still had a bit of baby fat in her cheeks. Her skin was tanner, richer than those from Paris. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, but the curls could not be contained like wild ocean waves. Her cloak was of fine materials, finer than most of the girls I taught from wealthy families. In her right hand was a wooden box, which she held closely against her hip. She turned towards me as she heard my footsteps. At seeing me approach, she stood and intensely watched me as I came to a stop in front on her. Her gaze dropped to my feet and slowly moved its way up to meet my eyes. Her eyes surprised me. They were a tumultuous sea. 

“Are you Ms. Cadieux?” she questioned. 

“Yes.” She let out a breath she must have been holding. “Who are you?” I asked in return.

“My name would not mean much to you.”

“And why would that be?” I quickly retorted.

“You have never met me before.”

“You can never be sure.”

She laughed once, shook her head, and smirked, “You won’t recognize me by my name.”

“It is worth a try,” I replied. I was too tired today. I looked up at the ceiling, willing someone to grant me patience, because I had used all mine in this morning’s class.

“My name is Ms. Rossi…” 

My eyes snapped back to the woman’s face. The name did not sound familiar to me, but it did reveal something. She pronounced the name with a perfect Italian accent, but her French was also perfect.

“…but you will not recognize that name, as I stated already.”

I was exhausted and my feet were already protesting that I was standing on them again. I did not have time for this young woman’s games, especially with the next class coming so soon.

“You are right. I do not recognize the name. I do recognize, however, that you showed up unannounced and asked adamantly to speak with me. You have said nothing of why you are here or what you needed to bring to me. If you only want to play games, please do that in the park down the street, not in my studio!”

“You are like fire.”

“Excuse me?”

She smiled and took a step closer to me, “Maman, she described you like fire.”

Maman? Who was her Maman? I dove into my memories, trying to figure out the answer. My first students would be old enough to have children around this woman’s age now. Maybe one of them had taken something in childhood from the studio and now wished to return it?

I was becoming more and more confused. “Was your mother one of my previous students?” 

She laughed. “No, no, she was never a student.”

“Then how do I know your mother?” I snapped, rubbing my temples.

She closed her eyes and seemed to steady herself for whatever she was going to say next. “I said that you would not recognize my name, because we have never met”.

“You have said that multiple—”

“—My mother’s name, however, is one you probably never forgot.”

“And what is—?”

“Héloïse.”

My head snapped up so quickly, I felt dizzy. I looked at the woman, really observed her, and I could not believe I missed it. The eyes were the same. The curl of the lips. The jaw line. The texture and curl of the hair, but not the color. The facial expressions. The height. The shape of her body. Those eyes.

I realized too late that my mouth was open and I was breathing quite loudly. I quickly shut my mouth and put my fingers to my forehead. My thoughts were running wild. How was this woman in front of me? How did she find me? Why did she come here? Where was Héloïse?

When our eyes met again, she gave me another small smile. “Based on your reaction, I think you knew my mother.”

Just like her mother. 

Ms. Rossi took the worn wooden box off of her hip and held it in both her hands. She looked it over and ran her fingers over the top one last time before offering it to me. I slowly reached for the box and grasped it, both of our hands holding onto it. She did not let go initially. Both of us holding on together, an energy and stiffness in the air. After a few more moments, she let go and the full weight of the box was in my hands. It was not heavy and it was not large enough for a pair of shoes. I looked up at Ms. Rossi and she nodded her head. I hesitantly opened the box, the wood worn smooth with the passage of time. The box was mostly empty save for a letter with my name on it and a book, but not just any book. It was the book I had given to Héloïse in Brittany all those years ago. But why was it in this box and why was Héloïse’s daughter in my studio?

In a cautious whisper, I asked, “Why are you giving these to me?”

Ms. Rossi’s face dropped. The tears started to pour into her eyes and I watched her throat constrict. I felt a punch to the gut and I had a feeling I already knew the answer.

“Maman—Héloïse…she had not been well the last year or so. The doctors could not figure out what was wrong with her. My father tried doctor after doctor, but no one had an answer or a cure that worked. She slowly started losing her energy, then her mobility…until she was no longer able to leave the bed. In some ways, it was a blessing, as that was only the last month. We spent a lot of time together in the end…”

The end. 

_“I’ve dreamt of that for years.”_

_“Dying?”_

Death.

I needed to know, but I did not want the answer. I could already feel the ache in my heart, the burning in my belly, and the strength in my wrinkled, discolored legs leaving me. I stumbled for the nearest stool and pulled it under me, now concentrating on sitting up, rather than trying not to fall over. I tried to get my breathing under control. I had to ask.

It came out like a soft spring breeze, a barely noticeable, “Is she gone?”

Ms. Rossi paused for a moment and nodded. I saw a tear roll down her cheek and collect under her chin, but she opened her mouth to speak. “She went peacefully. I held her hand as she left.”

The pain in my body intensified. Lightening was striking me to my core, but I had to know. I needed to know.

“When?” I asked.

“About six months ago.” Her voice cracked, but she continued. “I came here afterwards. I wanted to see my mother’s homeland…but I also had that box to deliver to you.”

“Why?”

“Maman and I spent a lot of time together in the end. My father was away. He is not a strong man. He could not handle the inevitable that was coming. Maman was herself through it all, though. I would sit next to her in bed and she would hold my hands. She told me stories of her life before Milan, of her childhood with her sister, her time in the convent, her Papa, but none of them she told as passionately as the time she spent with you.”

“Your mother and I were very close.”

“She told me.”

“What?”

“I share her and your…inclinations. Please do not hide from me.”

My cheeks immediately reddened and I could feel the warmth spreading across my face.

“She did not tell me everything, some things are private, but she talked about her equal love. The love she had with you was when she was free. It was one of her most cherished memories. In her last days she wrote the letter in the box and gave me the book. She told me to find you here in Paris and deliver it to you. She had started looking for you again…but she ran out of time.”

The tears, which I had managed to hold back, cascaded down my cheeks and the sobs wracked my body. I could feel myself making sounds, but I could no longer hear them. The pressure in my head was too much. The memories flooded over me like a heavy summer rain. Her face, her smell, her voice, her laughter, the feel of her skin, it all hit me at once and was too much for me to bear.

I felt arms timidly wrap around my shoulders and I fell into the body in front of me. My forehead laying on the collarbone and tears falling into the fabric below. The arms held me tightly and hands rubbed my back, trying to calm me, but the waves of emotions continued to batter my already beaten body. Images of my time with Héloïse flashed behind my closed eyelids. I was remembering, no reliving so many memories. I could hear her voice whispering in my ear, her breath dancing against my skin, the warmth of her body cuddled into mine. So many moments flashing before my eyes. My cries continued, echoing through my body and the studio.

Time passed, but how much exactly, I did not know. Slowly the sobs stopped and my eyes had no more tears left to give. Ms. Rossi kept me in her warm embrace until I slowly removed myself. She took a step back from my stool and a took a deep breath. 

She gave me another small smile. “I should be leaving. I told my carriage to pick me up at the park soon. I should not keep them waiting.”

I shook the last bit of fog from my head and nodded, “Of course.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you.” She paused. “I will be in Paris for a while, could I come by again?”

I inhaled and thought for a second. I was overwhelmed. I heard the church bells and knew the next students would be coming in fifteen minutes. “I suppose, but please call on me beforehand and see when I have classes.”

“I will Ms. Cadieux.”

“Please call me Marianne.”

“Alright. Until next time Marianne.”

“Goodbye Ms. Rossi.”

She turned and headed to the classroom door. As she reached for the door knob, she stopped and turned back towards me.

“Would you also please use my given name, if I may use yours?” she asked.

“Certainly. What is it?” I replied.

“It should be quite easy. Marianne.”

“Okay then tell me your name.”

“I did.”

“What?”

She opened the door, took one step through, and laughed over her shoulder at me. 

“My name is Marianne.”

* * *

Later that evening I sat on my bed, with the wooden box in front of me. I carefully removed the book, which was well worn on the cover and the spine was broken in a few places. With timid fingers, I flipped to the page number I knew by heart.

 _28_.

A decades younger version of myself was staring back at me. The drawing was not as crisp as I remembered. The lines were worn down and smudged from years of being touched. I could see water damage in a few spots, which I imagined were from tears or the press of wet lips. I could make out the faintest fingerprints from dirty or ink covered fingers touching the page. A mark of Héloïse. A piece of her. It was only after I left Brittany that I realized, I had nothing of hers. I had painted the miniature portrait of Héloïse, so I had an image of her, but I did not have anything that was hers. She had my book and the self-portrait I drew for her, but I was left with just my recollections of her.

I carefully set the book on the table next to my bed, next to my miniature portrait of Héloïse. Once again together. 

I turned back to the box and took a deep breath. I could see the letter with my name written in someone’s handwriting I did not recognize. I had never seen Héloïse write anything, or had I? Some memories became less clear with time.

I took the letter in my hands and slowly unfolded it, careful not the tear or damage it in any way. This paper had been held by Héloïse. This was something of hers that was mine. As the first line came into view, I could already feel the tightness in my throat and the tears welling in my eyes.

The letter read:

_My dearest Marianne,_

_If you receive this letter, then you know I have left this world. I apologize that our paths did not meet again, but I am thankful that we shared the same path, even if it was for only a short time._

_You probably have questions about what happened to me after our time in Brittany until my end. I do not care to narrate that part of my life. The joys I have from that period are my children, one of whom delivered this letter to you, her namesake._

_I hope this life has treated you well and you have found your liberty in your solitude. My life has not included as much freedom as yours, but I have found my liberty in the little moments. Page 28 has been a refuge of mine and a space that was only mine. I wonder how you look now, decades later. Has your dark hair begun to turn the color of snow? Mine is still golden, but gets lighter each year, more like the color of the sand in Brittany now than golden like the sun. Do you still breathe through your mouth when you are troubled? Are you still bad at cards? It would have been a pleasure to grow old with you, but that was not this life for us._

_The next life, however, is ours for the taking. Know that I am waiting for you. Do not rush. Live your life and create your art. However, when the time has come, and you take your last earthly breath, do not be scared, do not be frightened. Know that I am waiting for you on the banks of the river Styx. When you arrive, I will be standing there with open arms that have ached for you. I hope yours have ached for me too._

_This is our last goodbye. The next meeting will be our eternity._

_I remember._

_Héloïse_

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece posted on AO3. Thank you for reading to the end and I hope you enjoyed it. Comments and constructive criticism are always welcome.


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